Melanie Jackson - Divine Madness

Cuatro Cienegas. She was there.

The lilies werent the only nice thing in the water. Or, Ninon amended while standing in the trees small shadow, not the only beautiful thing. The other creaturewhile splendidmight not be nice at all.

The man was tall, with dark hair and pale skin that glistened with either sweat or water. Perhaps it was a reflection of the golden grass that partially screened him, but it almost looked like he was covered head to toe in gold paint. He was lean, carrying no extra baggage on his frame. He was also not an indioat least, not full-blooded. Spains tentacles had reached far into Mexico while searching for gold, but Ninon doubted it was the conquistadors this man had to thank for his pale skin and height. Perhaps the stork had gotten lost while making his delivery and left this baby under a cactus instead of the correct cabbage patch in Iowa.

Cherie, the voice in her head warned. This is no time to get distracted. There is danger.

Oui! Oui!

But she had always liked dark men

For Jennifer Reese, the genuine resurrectionist who brought light when it was dark.

Man is put into the world for a limited time; if yours were the choice, to what age would you extend life?

Letter from Ninon de Lenclos to Saint Evremond

The other day they seized an odd man who told us his name was St. Germain. He will not tell us who he is or from whence, but professes he does not use his right name. He plays the violin wonderfully, is mad, and not very sensible.

Letter from Sir Horace Walpole to Horace Mann upon the arrest of Saint Germain in London, Dec. 1745

FirstThat pleasure which produces no pain is to be embraced.

SecondThat pain which produces no pleasure is to be avoided.

ThirdThat pleasure is to be avoided which prevents a greater pleasure, or produces a greater pain.

FourthThat pain is to be endured which averts a greater pain, or secures a greater pleasure.

The Epicurean philosophy of Monsieur de Lenclos (Ninons father)

Scotland, Summer 2002

Miguel Stuart sank his turf spade into the sodden ground, grunting with the effort. The morning was cool and clean, the mist no more than a memory to the sunny moorlands.

This was wonderfulsun, sweat. He should have taken a vacation months ago. Work had kept him away too long. He loved what he did, but this placeThe Highlands were magical. Here he was a different person. He thought different thoughts. He stopped looking for patterns and explanations and could even feel hope. And his oddities were nothing. No one except his father knew he was damned.

He tossed another square of black peat aside, enjoying the birds chatter as he finished his fathers chores, taking pleasure in using his body and not just his mind. Hed enjoy it even more if he stopped thinking altogether, but that would be hard. His brain had been nagging him of late, reminding him that his father was old and sickfar sicker than Cormac would admitand that his oft-broken bones could no longer do the work required at the croft. Cutting peat should have been done weeks ago so that there would be time for drying, but the old man hadnt had the energy and had been too proud to call his son in America and ask him to come home. Miguel had been working full time since hed arrived to catch up on the chores, but theyd still have to have coal brought in for the winter.

As if to remind him that winter was coming soon, a sly bit of autumnal wind slipped beneath his woolen shirt and ran a cold finger down Miguels spine. The birds fell suddenly silent and then sped away, all except a solitary crow who perched on the stone wall and eyed him coldly. Miguel shivered and tried not think of the hoodie craw as being an ill omen, the harbinger of death. Autumn was coming and on her heels bitter winter, the time of darkness, and that was what he was sensing. Nothing more. And the best thing to keep cold at bay was a good peat fire and a mug of dark tea. Remembrance of his early years in Scotland had him suddenly craving hearth and mug with a hunger that was almost as strong as the other hunger. The dangerous one. The one he kept hidden from his father, though the old man had to know, or at least suspect, that the beast rode him hard these days.

The crow opened its beak and hissed at him and then stared over his shoulder. With a great flap of wings, it launched itself into the air.

Miguel! an urgent voice called. He turned and saw Mistress MacGuinn lumbering toward him. A part of him was glad to know what had frightened the birds away. Miguel!

Im here!

A different kind of cold ran down his spine as he saw the splashes of crimson on the front of Catrionas apron. He didnt need to hear her next words to know what was happening, but she yelled them anyway.

Make hasteits yer da. His lungs are bleedin. Miguel, Cormacs dying!

Miguel dropped his turf spade and ran for the cottage.

Promise me youll gae on with your life in the States when Im deid and in ma grave. Promise me yell stay away frae her. Her. Miguels mother, who was also dead but not in her grave. I ken ye thirst, but ye canna drink frae that cup o misery. Promise me. Cormac Stuarts voice was hushed but urgent as he forced the words past his blue lips. Catriona had gone to fetch the doctor though they all knew there was nothing he could do. Miguels father finally admitted that he had cancer in his lungs and stomach.

Miguel wanted more than anything to comfort his father, but the thing Cormac Stuart hated most in the world was lies. He compromised with a half-truth.

Ive no plans to go to see my mother, he assured the man who had sired him and whom he loved, but whose blood no longer flowed in his veins. And he didnt want to go backthat was truth. Because if he went back to his mother, it would be because the demon inside him was winning.

Satisfied, Cormac nodded and closed his eyes. Miguel stayed by the cot and held his hand until his fathers sprit slipped away.

Miguel had his dark tea then, and a fire in the grate, but without Cormac to share stories and puff away on his old briarwood pipe, the ritual had no meaning. And Miguel knew that hed never do it again.

The time had come to face his demons, the real ones living in Mexico.